


Wargames

by WantonWhale



Series: Good Day, Lieutenant Vanto [5]
Category: Star Wars Legends: Outbound Flight - Timothy Zahn, Star Wars: Thrawn Series - Timothy Zahn (2017)
Genre: Accidental Voyeurism, Anal, Artistic Analysis, Assistant to the Assistant Director Ronan, Bondage, Crack-adjacent, Double entendre on the bridge, Fingering, Holo-sex, M/M, Majestic Formbi, Masturbation, Minor Ronbi, SassaThrass, Shakespearean Ch'easter eggs, Tags subject to change as smut is edited, The age-old pornography vs art debate, and as always, anti-hoomin xenophobia, but with breakfast, flagrant abuse of Chiss family structure, fornicatory flashbacks, gratuitous wet Thrawn, mathematical seduction, sexual deduction
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-28
Updated: 2021-03-04
Packaged: 2021-03-10 23:41:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 10,511
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28195623
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WantonWhale/pseuds/WantonWhale
Summary: Thrawn is tasked with rebuilding and improving Csilla’s planetary defenses and decides (withoutanyulterior motives) that wargames would be the best way to test their effectiveness. And the proposed opponent? Why, Captain Eli Vanto, of course! When Thrawn realizes that he can analyze Eli’s sexual performance just as well as an artistic one, thesexwargame quickly devolves into an extended, super elaborate, very expensive, military-funded bout of foreplay for our guys.
Relationships: Formbi | Chaf'orm'bintrano/Brierly Ronan, Thrawn | Mitth'raw'nuruodo/Eli Vanto
Series: Good Day, Lieutenant Vanto [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1626466
Comments: 122
Kudos: 85





	1. Proposition

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thrawn makes a tantalizing proposition to Captain Mitth'el'iva that he simply cannot refuse—for the sake of planetary security, _of course._

After six months of house-arrest—and nearly giving Thrass a stress-induced heart attack on ten separate occasions—Thrawn was at long-last acquitted of the charges leveled against him. Given the truly _staggering_ amount of evidence against the former Imperial Grand Admiral, it was unclear just how he’d managed it.

Perhaps it was the intervention of the House of Agriculture, speaking on Thrawn’s behalf in gratitude for his discovery of a nontoxic method of eliminating the invasive ice-mite, thus solving the bluewheat crop shortage crisis and averting planetary disaster.

Perhaps it was Thrawn’s association with his brother, the handsome Mitth Syndic whose popularity had risen astronomically after ousting a corrupt politician from the Capital.

Or _perhaps_ it was because of who his bond-mate was: the alien who had been recently promoted to Captain (jumping two full ranks) after a truly spectacular battle against the Grysk on the edge of Imperial Space, in which his quick thinking helped to save a dozen kidnapped Navigators without a single loss of Chiss life.

Or, more likely, it was the Navigators themselves who had implied on no fewer than sixteen occasions that great tragedy would befall the Chiss should Mitth’raw’nuruodo not be allowed to remain on Csilla and resume his place as Commander in the CDF. This placed him exactly one rank beneath his husband, of course; the girls had been _very_ particular about that.

Thrawn’s first punishment was paying out a substantial sum to the bakery that had been destroyed on the evening of his return. He’d tried to point out that it was a CSF fighter that had done the damage, but Thrass had stomped on his foot beneath the table and he relented.

Thrawn’s second punishment was less a punishment so much as it was an assignment: staying planet-side, making improvements to Csilla’s planetary defense grid (what he had _left_ of it, anyway).

Or, as Eli called it: _Thrawn-proofing the planet._

The task was sufficiently stimulating to keep the Chiss-genius occupied (for a time). But still, he found himself missing the thrill of space, the tactical challenges and comradery of command, and—more than anything else—Eli.

Thrawn had missed him for every moment of the three months, two weeks, nineteen days, seven hours, and—he checked the chrono—two minutes since he had watched him leave for the _Steadfast_.

Captain Eli was now the captain of his own ship—the _Tempest—_ and had been working tirelessly to ensure that the Grysk would think twice before touching a Navigator ever, _ever_ again. After another very successful campaign against the Grysk on the edges of Wild Space, there were rumors that the alien Captain was already being considered for promotion to _Commodore_ : an unheard-of rank for someone so young and so… not blue.

Thrawn strongly suspected that Thrass had _started_ those rumors with absolutely no basis in fact, but was immensely proud all the same.

With a sharp exhale, Commander Thrawn folded his arms across his chest, eyes rapidly scanning the blueprints on the holo-drafting board before him with laser-focused intensity. He had already identified possible solutions for each weakness in Csilla’s planetary defense grid that he’d exploited upon his return to the planet. Now, it was just a matter of first implementing and then testing them. He turned to his comm terminal and waved his hand, pulling up the list of contacts. With a sweeping gesture, he scrolled through until he reached the name he needed and made the call.

 _“_ Commander Mitth’raw’nuruodo _,”_ Admiral Ar’alani said from her office aboard the _Steadfast._ “I trust things are progressing well? And _quickly_?” she added pointedly.

“Indeed, Admiral Ar’alani,” Thrawn said, inclining his head politely. “I believe we will be ready for testing within two weeks.” He raised his eyebrows slightly and added nonchalantly, “Might I suggest a bout of wargames for the most accurate assessment of real-world defensibility?”

Ar’alani narrowed her eyes suspiciously. “That certainly _sounds_ reasonable…” She gave him a wry smile. “I don’t suppose you have any given thought as to _whom_ you would like to conduct these war games with?”

Thrawn plucked an invisible piece of lint from the shoulder of his black uniform and said simply, “Someone who has demonstrated exceptional tactical acumen, resourcefulness, and outstanding command ability, I should think.” After a moment of thought, he added, “Ideally someone with experience operating non-Chiss vessels, for obvious reasons.”

 _“_ Of course. _”_ Admiral Ar’alani looked like she was struggling to keep from rolling her eyes. _“_ In which case, I suppose Captain Theli would be the only _logical_ choice? _”_

Thrawn arched an eyebrow. “If you think that would be in the Ascendancy’s best interests, I will, of course, defer to you, Admiral.”

It could not be helped: Ar’alani finally did roll her eyes. She gave him a long, hard stare, then said flatly, _“_ I’ll just let the Captain _know,_ then _, shall I?”_

Thrawn gave her a polite bow of his head. “Thank you, Admiral.”

Ar’alani muttered something that sounded suspiciously like, “ _I have so many regrets,_ ” before reaching out of view to turn off the transmission.

* * *

The next day, Thrawn leaned against his desk at the Csilla Defense Outpost, staring at the comm unit on the wall as he awaited a long, _long_ -anticipated call.

A chime sounded and Thrawn waved a hand, warmth fluttering in his chest as the holo-form of Mitth’el’iva appeared in full-scale before him.

“Welcome back to the CDF, Commander,” Eli said, a smile twitching at the corner of his mouth that made his face of his holo-form shimmer slightly.

“Thank you, _Captain,_ ” Thrawn said, emphasizing his husband and bond-mate’s superior rank.

Eli’s nose scrunched. “So, we got married _before_ you re-joined the CDF so this isn’t fraternization… right?” he asked. Much of Chiss custom still eluded him, Thrawn knew.

Thrawn arched an eyebrow. “I thought you enjoyed fraternizing.”

Eli grimaced slightly and Thrawn could practically feel his blush as he said, “Yeah, like… in contrived sexual scenarios, not like, _legally._ ”

“Ah.” Thrawn nodded his understanding. “No, we are not fraternizing.”

“I mean, not like wild wampas could keep me away from you, but it’s still nice to know I’m not flouting any more regulations than I already do.” Eli took a quick breath, changing gears. “So,” he said more formally, “Wargames, huh?”

“Indeed.”

Eli, being a man after his own heart, had immediately accepted the challenge. Even through the holo, Thrawn could practically see that brilliant mind spinning with possibilities behind those brown eyes.

“Alright, well, first of all, I’m gonna need an objective, and it’s hardly realistic if you know what it is ahead of time,” Eli said.

“Of course,” Thrawn agreed with a nod. “Admiral Ar’alani will be our arbiter; your objective must be approved and filed with her before we begin,” he said with a hint of amusement. “There are several basic criteria to choose from, I believe: capture of a single combatant, seizure of a single building, or—“

“Ugh, c’mon!” Eli sagged, letting his arms fall dramatically to the side. “You mean I don't get to use a turbolaser to carve out hearts into the cliffside?” He lifted a shoulder in a shrug and admitted, “Okay, _hearts_ weren’t the organ I really wanted to carve, but I’d have settled for them.”

“Probably not,” Thrawn said with a smile. “The objectives are largely dictated by tradition, I’m afraid.”

“Right, fine,” Eli said, grimacing slightly. “If we’re doin’ this in a week, I guess there’s no reason for me to have it ready any earlier than that?”

“Considering the Syndicure must also approve the exercise, you may wish to be… extra efficient.”

“Good point,” Eli muttered. A mischievous grin tugged at the corner of his mouth as he asked, “How would you feel about making this military exercise a little more… _interesting_?”

Thrawn arched an eyebrow. “You are proposing a wager of some sort?”

“I am,” Eli said, folding his arms across his chest.

“Professional or personal?”

“Oh, _definitely_ personal.” Eli took a step forward.

Thrawn took a step to match. “How personal?”

Eli leaned forward slightly, the flashing of his brown eyes perceptible even through the holo-call. “ _Intimately_.”

Thrawn inclined his head. “What are your terms, Captain?”

Eli tapped his finger on his chin as he thought. “You first.”

Thrawn thought for a moment, then nodded. “Very well, Captain. If I win, _you_ must bring me to Lysatra to introduce me as your husband to your family.”

The feedback made Thrawn wince slightly as Eli shouted, “WHAT?!”

“Only once it is reasonably safe to do so, of course.”

“But that’s—I—you—they’re just— _Thrawn_!”

“Those are my terms. You are, of course, free to reject them.”

“That’s not exactly what I had in _mind,_ Thrawn,” Eli gritted.

“Perhaps not,” Thrawn said evenly.

Eli glared at him for a few moments of silence, then released a long breath, “Fine,” he said, adding with a smirk, “not like it’s gonna be an issue, anyway.” He grumbled something Thrawn couldn’t hear.

Thrawn gave him a small smile, “And if _you_ win, Captain?”

Eli drummed his fingers on his arm in thought, tapping out a steady rhythm that matched the speed of his thoughts, “If I win… I want you to consider adoption. Not saying you have to do it, I just want you to promise you will look into it.”

Thrawn blinked. "Adoption of what? I'll consider it now."

Eli shook his head, a one-sided smile on his face. "Of a _child_ , Thrawn. Specifically, from the Sky-Walker Retirement and Reintegration Program."

Thrawn blinked again. "You wish to adopt a retired navigator?" 

"It'd be more like fostering, really, but yeah: I think I might," Eli said. "I think I can convince the CDF that it would be beneficial for my genetic-analysis,” Eli said. “There’s no real system in place to handle girls like Un'hee, or the other dozen Sky-walkers we rescued from the Grysk last month—the ones who can still See but can’t serve.” More quietly, he added, “Or _shouldn’t_ serve, rather. But with the shortage being what it is, well..." He let out a short breath. "I think _maybe_ if I can convince the right people that they'll still be 'serving' the Ascendancy by helpin' me figure out why their numbers have been dwindling, they'll make an exception and let them retire early: be _kids_."

Thrawn considered this: he himself did not have much of a childhood to speak of and doubted very much if he would be equal to the task. But, if Eli was confident in his own abilities, he would trust him, he decided and then nodded. “Very well, Captain. Your terms are acceptable.”

“So we have an agreement, Commander?”

“We do. I am rather looking forward to this,” Thrawn said.

“Oh? And why’s that?”

“Because, Captain Vanto, I am going to pull you apart piece by piece until your forces are spread upon the surface of this planet in a dazed, quivering heap,” Thrawn told him.

Eli raised his eyebrows and let out a slow whistle. “Well, Commander, that was quite the speech, but I’m pretty sure I’m gonna need you to buy me dinner first.”

“Oh, Captain,” Thrawn chided, a smile tugging at his lips. “We both know that is rarely—if ever—the case.”

* * *

Admiral Ar’alani repressed a sigh of frustration. She looked down at the questis on her desk, reading through Captain Theli’s objectives that would be presented to an irate Syndicure that evening.

“You are aware, Captain,” Ar’alani began, not looking up from her reading, “that he will have to _consent_ to serve as a hostage for the Syndicure to approve the proposal?”

“Yes, sir, I am,” Mitth’el’iva said, arms folded behind his back and chin raised confidently. There was a distinct tinge of humor to his voice that Ar’alani found _suspect._

“You sound rather certain,” Ar’alani observed, powering down the questis and leveling her subordinate with a look. “I understand the man is quite busy—though doing _what_ , I cannot imagine.”

“He’ll agree, sir. He'll be too tempted to see Thrawn lose at something not to.”

“And you are counting on that enmity to make your own task easier, I take it?”

Eli gave a small shrug, a smile forming on his face. “I certainly wouldn’t say no to the assistance, Admiral. That’s just sound tactics.”

“Well,” Ar’alani said resignedly, “it’ll be _informative_ for the CDF, no doubt. Admittedly, he would make a potential target: all in all, a reasonable choice. I confess I’m relieved it’ll be _you_ on the offensive, rather than Thrawn. His attitude toward collateral damage is less than ideal.” She twisted her mouth into a wry smile. “You certainly have a _unique_ bond, don’t you, Captain?”

“Yes, sir, we do.”

Ar’alani glanced at the questis once more and let out a small snort. “Indeed. I know I am not meant to take sides, but… kick his ass, Captain. That was my favorite bakery he took out: best wampa-claws on Csilla,” she added with a grumble.

Eli managed to restrain a laugh, but not his grin. “Will do, sir.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome back, gentle readers! Hope you're doing well. How am I doing, you ask? *glances over shoulder at raging inferno* Oh, you know: same wampa-shit, different day. Also: Do you remember everything that happened in the GDLV series? Because I certainly don't, and I think one of us should. 
> 
> I haven't really integrated the Zahn Ascendancy books apart from taking up the words "questis" and "Syndicure" because I just think they're neat. If you read that sentence in a Marge Simpson voice, know I wrote it in a Marge Simpson voice.
> 
> The sequel to what I had intended to be the final GDLV installment is already underway (damnit), and a preview will be posted as a final chapter to this fic. It's rated TEEN; I don't know what happened to me. We'll find out, I guess.


	2. Setting the Mood

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> All Thrass wants is an uneventful breakfast, and Ronan is just trying to do his job: _capeless,_ no less!

The sunrise usurped the mountain range in the East, splashing the large table with diffuse, golden light. Thrawn neatly cut his wampa sausage with his fork and knife while Thrass agitatedly stirred his _cha’i_ tea, not bothering to conceal his frustration with his brother. He groaned dramatically and dropped his spoon to the table with a clatter.

It was the third time he’d done so that morning.

“So…” Thrass began, pinching the bridge of his nose with his fingers, “instead of Theli coming home presently after his extended, near-fatal battle to be with his weird little family and rest here in comfort and safety, because of _you—_ “ He pointed at Thrawn “—Theli may not be home for _months._ ”

“It is necessary for the defense of—“

“I am already aware of the rationale, Thrawn,” Thrass told him with an unimpressed look. “The Syndicure was dragged in for an emergency meeting to approve your little play-battle—“

“—Wargame,” Thrawn corrected.

“Whatever. Anyway, I had to have a late dinner because of it and was up all night with indigestion, so I hope you’re pleased.”

Thrawn nodded slowly as he processed this information, arranging his sausage and eggs into possible ship formations. “So… Captain Theli’s objective has already been approved?” he asked delicately. “And you know what it is?”

“Mhmm,” Thrass hummed a confirmation. He tried to conceal his faint ghost of a smile with his cup of _cha’i_ , but not quickly enough for Thrawn to not notice.

“You anticipate he will be victorious,” Thrawn observed, narrowing his eyes. “You believe his chosen objective plays into my own social and political weaknesses—he has chosen a hostage scenario, has he not?” he asked, his eyes flashing.

“I am not at liberty to say,” Thrass said neatly.

"As a chosen hostage you would, indeed, not be at liberty to say," Thrawn said, eying his brother closely.

"I am not at liberty to say as a Syndic, you bakery-trampling wampa," Thrass bit back.

"Both can be true," Thrawn pointed out.

"Fine," Thrass said flatly. "I am not at liberty to say because you _pissed me off: how's that_?"

“You would betray your allegiances to your family so readily?” Thrawn asked, trying and failing miserably to be petulant. It just wasn't in his character.

Thrass blamed himself, really.

Thrass scoffed. “Please. Mitth’el’iva is my ward, and I am responsible to him as his guardian first and foremost. You’re just the _weirdo_ my ward bonded to, not my _brother._ Legally speaking, that is.”

“That is just the law,” Thrawn said dismissively. “Not reality.”

Thrass shook his head in disbelief. “‘That’s just the law, not reality?’ I ask you: has a more quintessentially- _Thrawn_ sentiment ever been uttered?”

Thrawn shrugged noncommittally. “Perhaps.”

“I take it back,” Thrass murmured, pointing his spoon at his brother. “ _There_ it is.” He snorted a laugh to himself. “ _‘That’s just the law, your Honor,’”_ he echoed mockingly. “I can’t believe Theli is back on Csilla but not _here where he belongs_. Possibly for months _…_ I’m tempted to advise him as his guardian and legal counsel to _divorce you._ ”

“He will be home when either he or I am declared victorious,” Thrawn said calmly. “The dramatics are quite unnecessary.”

“Right,” Thrass muttered under his breath, “ _I’m_ the dramatic one.” He worked his jaw agitatedly. “And how long do you anticipate that taking?”

Thrawn considered as he chewed a bite of sausage. He swallowed and said, “My defenses are more than adequate for the challenge. I expect this to be concluded within ten days," he said, a subtle smirk of anticipation twitching at his lips as he took another bite.

Thrass eyed Thrawn in suspicion.

Thrawn paused his chewing a moment, then swallowed.

Thrass’s eyes narrowed into glowing, red slits.

Thrawn carefully cut off another piece of sausage, cast a sideways glance at his brother, and gingerly placed it into his mouth.

Thrass’s mouth contorted in a grimace. “Sweet Sky-walkers: this is a _sex thing,_ isn’t it?”

Thrawn coughed lightly and took several, slow sips of juice in lieu of a direct answer.

Thrass’s eyes widened. “It _is!_ This is some convoluted, fucked-up, military-funded bout of _foreplay_ for you two, isn’t it?!” he demanded.

Thrawn put down his glass, hesitated a moment. “It is not _only_ a sex—“

Thrass rapidly stood from his chair, sweeping from the dining room in a huff, leaving his untouched wampa-claw pastry behind.

Thrawn reached across the table to snatch his brother’s abandoned pastry. He took a nibble and muttered, “He _really_ is the best choice.” He eyed the wampa-claw in faint disappointment.

That bakery really had gone downhill since that CSF fighter had crashed into it.

He’d have to look into that.

* * *

“Brierly’ro’nan?”

Ronan looked up from his desk to see a Chiss he did not recognize—and yes, he could tell some of them apart, thank you very much—in a yellow-piped gray coat, standing stiffly beside his desk. He grimaced once he spotted the color. He himself was wearing a Chaf-yellow pocket kerchief to signify his subservience to his boss, Chaf’orni’catyr (an unfortunate name if he’d ever heard one). As he’d learned over the course of his year here, security was best won through association with Ruling Families. Of course, as a Human, that was hardly an option available to him, and he’d had to settle for a mixture of usefulness and _maximal sycophancy._

Adoption and bonding were for the _Vantos_ of the world, not the Ronans.

So, he’d worn a yellow cape one day in public, mistaking what was, in fact, a carefully-guarded right to bear color for something more like showing support for a favored sports team.

Ronan didn’t actually understand sports, so why he thought the comparison was valid he had _no idea._

He’d been spotted almost immediately by a Chaf in the courtroom, questioned rather harshly outside, and when he explained who he was and more about his background, he’d been brought _here._ The fact that Admiral Ar’alani hadn’t even questioned the transfer from administrative work in the CDF to administrative work in a Chaf-run department was surely a testament to just how powerful the Chaf were and, in turn, how keen Ronan’s own selection had been.

Still, this man in his office—apart from actually being _Chiss—_ wasn’t much higher than himself in station, as evidenced by the meager traces of color he was allowed to bear. Like Ronan, his scant yellow was more a token of ownership than belonging. In fact, with Ronan’s current administrative position, this servant might even be a bit _lower_ on the social ladder. Still, it would not do to upset whatever Chaf he served: for both their sakes.

“Yes?” Ronan asked with forced politeness.

“You are the _hoomin_ in charge of the special budget committee for CDF domestic training maneuvers taking place this month?”

“The what, excuse you?” Ronan asked, blinkingly.

“The CDF domestic training maneuvers,” the man repeated.

“I heard _that_ bit,” Ronan said a tad testily. “ _What_ did you call me, exactly?”

“The _hoomin,_ ” the man repeated more stiffly.

_Oh, sweet space._

“I am the _hu-man_ ,” Ronan said with an indignant sniff. “And I’m rather busy with said budget committee work at the moment, so if you could just— _excuse you?”_ Ronan said tartly as the Chiss gripped his upper arm.

“You will come with me now.”

“Oh, er… alright,” Ronan said quietly, resisting the urge to go defensively-limp.

An hour later, he was being escorted from the yellow speeder, past the marble walls and starflower hedges, and up the drive to the imposing Chaf Manor. _You can do this, Brierly,_ he told himself as two yellow-clad guards opened the huge black doors and guided him inside.

Their footsteps didn’t make a single sound in the huge hall and it was _incredibly_ disconcerting. Intentional, most likely. The complete lack of art on the walls was _equally_ disconcerting. Every other Chiss home he visited had at least one or two paintings or family portraits, but here it was just _blank walls—_ no tapestries, no sculptures, not even a floral arrangement: most disconcerting.

Consider Ronan _thoroughly disconcerted._

Important people were always pulling shit like that, Ronan thought: _guest-mind-fuckery._ Tarkin, he recalled, had a special fondness for manipulating his visitors into a dismal, vulnerable sort of headspace and Ronan loathed it (mostly because he seemed to be acutely susceptible to such tactics). Now, he had no idea just what the intention of _this_ Manor’s unusual design—or lack thereof—was, and that was even _more_ agitating.

The thought just drove home the fact that the Aristocra was not so unlike the Imperial Court, really. And Ronan, if absolutely necessary, could charm the pants off anyone. If that was what Director Krennic had _wanted,_ he’d—

He swallowed a lump in his throat, promptly snuffing the thought out. That was a lifetime ago, no sense in thinking about him now.

Ronan was manhandled and guided like a blind bantha to stand in a grand carved archway that led to an equally grand sitting room, where a long-haired Chiss man with fine features was lounging on a settee in flowing, plain golden robes. He practically _dripped_ opulence without a single jewel, chain, or bauble. It was like he adorned himself with _sheer attitude._

“ _Oh, my_ ,” Ronan mumbled weakly.

“My Lord Chaf’orm’bintrano,” the servant said, straightening in the archway. “Assistant to the Assistant Director of the Special Budget Committee has arrived, at your leisure.”

Ronan shot the guard a dirty look. The _Director_ of the Budget Committee didn’t do _anything:_ it was a purely ceremonial position. His supervisor was the _real_ Director, making Ronan himself the _true_ Assistant Di—

“I wish to understand this… _wargame,_ ” Formbi said imperiously, slicing off Ronan’s train of thought with a glorious, verbal sword.

Once the shock at just how _sultry_ the man's voice was faded, Ronan's brain kicked back into gear.

_Ah, yes._

_That made sense._

Every important person wished to have more tokens of testament to that importance in their arsenal, ready to deploy at any moment. How many times had Ronan been approached by Lords and Moffs wanting to know more about Project Stardust? And not so they could know more about it, per se: only so they could know _more_ about it than _someone else_? It didn’t matter what bantha-shit Ronan spun them because they’d never share the information: they just liked having it and knowing someone _else_ didn’t.

He often wondered if these people were aware of how easily-to-manipulate they were, and were simply too important to _care._ Or maybe that was all just part of the game, too.

He was no fan of Csilla, but _fuck_ , did he not miss Coruscant.

“Oh, well, you see, your…” Ronan scrunched his nose a moment and settled on, “ _opulence;_ after Mitth’raw’nuruodo’s rather spectacular return to Chiss space, he managed to disable and destroy large sections of the planetary defense grid. As a result, he has been tasked with repairing and bolstering that grid, and has requested permission from the CDF to test its effectiveness with a bout of wargames. Apparently. For some reason.”

Formbi narrowed his eyes, reducing them to glowing red slits in the low light. He turned to the guard and lifted an eyebrow ever so slightly. The servant, thereupon, repeated everything Ronan had just said _in the same language_ , and Ronan felt himself scowl: half-crest-fallen, half-indignant. His Cheunh wasn’t _that bad—_ in fact, he’d hardly had to resort to a translator _at all_ in the last month.

Formbi did not notice Ronan’s displeasure, apparently, as he only asked, “This has been posed before the Syndicure?”

“It has, your grace,” Ronan said, taking even more care to enunciate his Cheunh this time around. “I believe Admiral Ar’alani made the argument that these wargames constituted an emergency measure and permission was granted by a simple majority of the Speakers two days ago.” He exhaled sharply as the guard began repeating what he’d just said even then. “Oh, _come on_!”

“This is most upsetting,” Formbi said. “Thrawn must not be allowed to be victorious. You will work in your capacity as Assistant to the Assistant Director to ensure that he is not.”

“And why are you asking _me,_ Aristocra?” Ronan asked. He gritted his teeth and looked up at the servant as he repeated the question.

“Because, _hoomin_ , my sources assure me that you are pathologically cooperative with authority figures.”

“I am not—“ Ronan huffed an agitated breath. “Okay, fine. But I am duty-bound to _not interfere,_ or share any knowledge that might compromise the integrity of the wargame. This has been explained to me in no uncertain terms fourteen times by people who terrify me.”

Formbi blinked at him slowly, then turned to face the guard. “What did it say?”

“Oh for—“

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Boy, I really hope I haven't mixed up Thrawn and Thrass's names while writing. It's my curse. I caught one earlier, but... we'll see, I guess. Please let me know if you see one *flails*


	3. Flirtation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thrawn steamily contemplates _The Lovers_ , and he achieves a... tactical formation.

Of all the shit his brother had ever pulled, this _had_ to be Thrass’s third-least-favorite.

First, there was that whole Empire business: a complete disaster on all fronts. For roughly a decade, it had made filing the Mitth taxes an absolute _nightmare_.

Second, was what Thrass refused to think of in any more detail than: “ ** _The Incident_**.”

Third, was this _wargame_ nonsense.

Not _only_ did it mean that his recently-gravely injured beloved ward and brother-in-law would not be home for likely another month _at least,_ but his life at work had also turned into a cluster-fuck mirrored only by the cluster-fuck he left at home each morning.

He was getting harassed in his office by _Chaf’orm’bintrano_ , of all people.

Just what he needed: his _ex_ taking an interest in his life again.

Fantastic in bed (and gloriously kinky) as he was, the man was an ex for a reason; and _whatever_ Formbi said, it had been _Thrass who broke up with—_ you know what, never mind.

He sighed as he walked through the entrance hall, grabbed the mail from the sideboard, and flipped through it. His brow furrowed in confusion once he saw the address of the art dealer on an elegant gray envelope. Mitth’el’iva had already taken care of that _months_ ago, he'd thought. Perhaps they wished to finalize the return of the painting his brother had—

He paused mid-step.

Had he forgotten to shut the door, or was that a draft—

“Pardon, Syndic!”

Thrass flattened himself against the wall and nearly dropped the mail as four Chiss in coveralls walked past, carrying a giant, flat wooden box between them, roughly the size and shape of their dining room table.

“What on Csilla…” Thrass murmured, narrowing his eyes. When the workers took a sharp turn to the left into the dining room (nearly knocking over a near-priceless vase in the process), his eyes narrowed further. When the distinct sound of hammering followed soon after that, his eyes widened.

Then, he really _did_ drop the mail.

“THRAWN!”

* * *

Thrawn did not look away from the painting as his brother’s yells echoed through the manor. He began his analysis even before the movers had the work hanging in the dining room. One of the movers kept blushing furiously each time he had to handle the work, while another didn’t seem to be able to stop staring at it. The bored look of the third gave Thrawn the impression that she encountered this sort of thing on a regular basis.

The painting was an exceptional representation of the High Classical period. In true _uchi'yo'e_ style, the work did not shy away from its sensuality. Larger than life was a pair of nude Chiss men, lying atop a _wa'mp'thana_ in a snow-strewn forest, spooning back-to-chest, their bodies adorned with constellations of gold bonding paint. The legs of the man in the foreground were spread wide in a position that defied both anatomical sense and the laws of physics, opening himself to the exceptionally well-endowed man behind him. The so-called “beloved” man’s red-tinted lips were parted as he was fed _koi’tas_ berries by the “lover” from behind. 

It was the very painting that Eli had found (in reproduction) in a book in Thrawn’s study: the painting that had cued him to his brother’s schemes.

And now, Thrawn had procured the original painting itself at great expense to gain tactical insight into Eli’s mind. It provided a certain symmetry to their lives together that he found he greatly appreciated, and the thought made him smile.

“Thrawn…” Thrass said, waving off the movers and standing beside his brother to stare up at the huge painting. “Why is there porn where we eat?”

“It is not pornography,” Thrawn said, resting a hand on his chin as he examined the fine brushwork. “It is art.”

Thrass focused his gaze on the painted erection that stood at a larger-than-life two feet tall and said neatly, “Well, there is a _giant penis_ where we _eat._ ”

“There is always a penis where you eat, it has never bothered you before,” Thrawn countered.

“My _own,_ Thrawn! And not _out,_ ” Thrass snapped, waving an agitated hand, “ _flailing about_ and dripping in—“

“It is a culturally-significant work.”

“Again, Thrawn, I don’t doubt that. My qualm is with its _location._ Why is it _here_ and not in the parlor designated for your particular use—far away from where I have breakfast? With _sausage_?”

“The chairs are too squishy in there,” Thrawn said. “I cannot contemplate art and tactics in such a chair.”

Thrass clenched his jaw. “So why didn’t you just _take_ one of the chairs from the dining room or something and _move_ it there?” he gritted.

Thrawn was quiet for several moments. “That is of the past, Thrass. The future is what concerns me now.” He folded his arms across his chest and considered the painting, ignoring his brother’s dramatic departure.

 _So much had changed_ , Thrawn thought with a bit of sad nostalgia. He and Eli had not worked together in years… they’d been bonded… Eli had been promoted, Thrawn himself _demoted._ Further, Eli was at a decided advantage. He had witnessed Thrawn in command countless times, whereas Thrawn hadn’t even been able to witness Eli’s maneuvering of the TIE defenders during the _Steadfast’s_ battle with the Grysk. He only knew that it went well enough to merit promotion, but had not had the opportunity to witness it.

Likewise, Eli had been reluctant to disclose the details of his most recent campaign; but again, it had resulted in his promotion. Though... perhaps “reluctant” wasn’t the right word so much as “distracted.” Thrawn had no one to blame for that but himself.

He turned to grab a chair from the dining room table, dragged it across the carpet, and sat.

And sat.

And contemplated.

And sat.

* * *

That night, Thrawn laid back in the huge, black marble bathtub, soaking up the steam and the faint scent of night-blooming starzalea oil. As he stared at the water before him, he saw not his own knee, piercing the surface like an iceberg, but rather _The Lovers._

Thrawn saw the graceful, sweeping lines—less focused on anatomical precision than the flow between the two figures. He considered how the artist had managed to capture their harmony _and_ distinctness, undulating between union and separation through the dynamism of the brush strokes, the composition of the flesh.

Thrawn ghosted his fingertips over the faintly steaming water’s surface, admiring the way the hot bath had flushed his skin to nearly the precise shade of the exertion-flushed lover of the painting. His eyes traced the small ripples his hand made in the water until the image of the painting in his mind’s eye was overlaid with attack vectors.

With a slow exhale of breath, he plucked the bottle of starzalea-scented oil from the edge of the bath, poured the warmed oil into his hands, and began to rub it into the flushed skin of his arms and shoulders. As he rubbed the oil into his neck, working out the knots of tension he found there, he began to see ship formations tracing the heaving curves of the Beloved’s body, opening into a marg-sable as his thighs parted for the Lover.

Thrawn considered this… most Chiss would not have opted for such a tactic, but Eli was not Chiss. And while he believed this particular work of art might provide insight into his husband’s tactics, it was important to bear that fact in mind.

It was central to recall Eli’s decidedly un-Chiss habits: his openness with his affections, his willingness to initiate a battle—to preemptively strike, if you will, when the need to be intimate struck _him_.

It would not do to neglect these very important details…

The way his brown skin flushed red when embarrassed, angry, _or_ aroused… how those emotions bled into one another, swelling and merging until they painted his skin with heat, making him glow in the infrared.

The sounds Eli made as he seated himself on his husband’s cock—a quiet sound, deep in the back of his throat, like the prelude to a whimper. Thrawn watched a few drops of water roll down his wrist as he lifted his hand from the bath to coat it with more oil, his mind automatically connecting that image to the memory of a single bead of sweat, rolling down the middle line of Eli’s abdomen as he rode him, each breath _in_ shaky with exertion, each breath _out_ just _threatening_ to become a moan.

Thrawn slid a hand over the undulations of his own abdomen, reaching for his steadily-swelling cock—a shoddy substitute for the feeling of Eli’s considerable heat clenching around him, but a satisfying sensation nonetheless. With his other hand, he gripped the flesh of his own muscular thigh, wishing it could be Eli’s flesh in his hands instead—wishing he were holding his bond-mate steady as he rode him, like an anchor steadying a ship rocking on blue waves.

Eli would let out a surprised gasp of pleasure as Thrawn closed his hand around his bouncing, leaking cock—letting Eli fuck into his fist as he writhed above him, slickened by his own precum. Thrawn raised his hips and thrust into his own closed fist, both recalling the feeling of thrusting up into Eli and imagining Eli’s _own_ experience as he took his pleasure from the man beneath him on two fronts. 

Thrawn lifted a foot from the water and braced it on the edge of the tub as he fucked up into his fist without a care for the water splashing over the edge. He clawed his fingers into his own thigh as the Eli of memory arched back, attempting to steady himself with his grip on Thrawn’s thighs even as he threw back his head, moaning the terms of his surrender.

Thrawn had not accepted the terms of his lover’s surrender at that time, and instead had gripped both Eli’s hips in his hands and flipped them over, pushing a brown thigh back to the bed before fucking him mercilessly into the mattress, the protesting groans and squeaks of the bedframe barely audible over the sound of Eli’s cried attempts at his husband’s name.

Thrawn’s hand moved faster, the pumping of his fist splashing as he chased the memory and the pleasure that came with it, even now seeing fighter formations dancing on the waves of bathwater as he fucked into his own hand. He felt his balls tightening and lifted a hand to his own hair, gripping it in his fingers as Eli had done just as he reached the edge.

He wished he could taste the sweat from his lover’s throat, taste the moans beneath his tongue as Eli broke beneath him with a strangled cry of “ _Thra_ —

Thrawn came with a restrained sound of relief, feverishly stroking his cock until the last of his cum painted his abdomen. He laid his head back and let out a stuttering sigh on the edge of a groan, settling into the fluid feeling of post-orgasmic relaxation.

Then, he winced, gingerly touching a finger to his swollen lip; he hadn’t even realized he’d bitten it.

He felt a faint shiver, signaling that it was long-past time to drain the now almost-tepid water. With a sigh, he cleaned himself properly then pulled himself out of the tub, stepping into a huge puddle. He shrugged and shook the excess water from his hair, now black with moisture.

After he toweled himself off, he dropped it to the floor to soak up the bathwater. As he watched the burgundy towel darken with moisture, he considered the unique use of color in the painting: expressing intimacy, yes, but also a certain dignity that was so hard to come by in erotic works.

Thrawn had just been preparing to slide into bed to contemplate the work some more (possibly with the dildo in the bureau), when he heard Eli’s voice—muffled but distinct—trailing down the hall. He slid on a robe but didn’t bother with much else and stalked the source of the sound to his brother’s office.

“—to hear from you,” came his brother’s voice. “I might actually be going insane without you. My dining room is unusable and there is nothing I can do about it.”

Eli’s bright laugh echoed in the room. “I’m sure I’ll be back real soon, alright?”

“Yes, well—not soon en—“ Thrass stopped talking when he noticed his brother standing in the doorway of his office. “Are you allowed to be in here?” he asked, his brow pinching.

Thrawn inclined his head. “There is no rule against me communicating with the enemy,” he said. He stepped forward to see Eli’s holo form in miniature standing upon his brother’s desk. “But all the same, I think it best if all transmissions with said enemy are monitored by myself, for security purposes. Subterfuge is within the limit-conditions of the wargame, after all.”

Thrass rolled his eyes and stood from his chair. He shot Eli a commiserating look and said, “We will catch up later, oh unholy enemy of the Ascendancy.”

“You bet,” Eli said with a laugh. When Thrawn took the seat his brother had just occupied, Eli scowled. “It’s not bad enough that you teased me for _years_ before we even got together?” Eli said wryly, gesturing pointedly at Thrawn’s wet hair and lazily-tied robe. “You gotta tease me some more with _this_ look?”

Thrawn’s eyes narrowed. “I am not teasing you now. At least, not intentionally. And I _certainly_ did not tease you then.”

“No?” Eli asked, holding out a hand as he began ticking instances off on his fingers. “You took off your shirt to fight a Togorian with sticks—“

“I did not wish to crease my uniform.”

Eli arched a skeptical eyebrow. “You took off your uniform _and made me hold it_ while you worked on your buzz droids—“

“I did not wish to stain—“

“—You stripped and then had _me_ strip so I could change into _your_ uniform before sending me off to a pirate’s lair—“

“That was just sound tactics.”

“Okay, sweetheart,” Eli said ironically. “And the fact that Horatio Figg _just so happened_ to make a reprise by request in the bedroom was just… tactics?”

“You know how I feel about waste, Captain.”

Eli snorted. “A-a-a-nd moving right along. How’re you doin’, gorgeous?”

“I look forward to our reunion, and as such will do my best to plot your demise efficiently.”

Eli gave him a fond smile. “Such a romantic.” He sniffed, glancing at his wrist-comm. “I didn’t get much of a chance to talk to your brother about anything more specific than a greeting thanks to all this business. But so far as I know, _you_ are allowed to tell me whatever you want: so, how’s Thrass doin’? Have you given him any more cause to abuse the _pa’ino_?”

“Since the instrument’s ‘desecration,’ as he calls it, the bar for what will result in a musical tantrum has become considerably higher.” Eli looked at Thrawn expectantly and he admitted, “Yes. But I was justified, I assure you: it was an issue of planetary security.”

The corner of Eli’s mouth twitched into a smile that he quickly covered by moistening his lips with his tongue. “I see,” he said casually. “Well, I got all _I_ needed to know. Thanks, babe; love ya.”

And with that, Eli’s hand reached forward before his holo-form shimmered out of existence.

Thrawn frowned.

Then, his eyes narrowed in suspicion.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For anyone who's forgotten, wa'mp'thana is the blanket made from a wampa whereupon a union is consummated in the old way. 
> 
> _uchi'yo'e_ is inspired by the Japanese art genre _ukiyo-e_ (if you wanna give "shunga" a google, you'll see some Japanese erotic art, the composition of which inspired the composition of The Lovers in my head). 
> 
> Fun fact: _ukiyo_ (浮世) means "floating world" and "e" (絵) means picture (ukiyo-e = pictures of the floating world)  
>  _uchiyo_ (打ち寄) as in 打ち寄せる, can mean break onto shore, as in a wave or ship attacking from the water. 
> 
> Does this word I made up for smut purposes make much sense? Not really, but in light of Thrawn jerking off to ship battle formations in a bathtub, it gave me a giggle. I hope this chapter gave you a giggle too!


	4. Footsie

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Thrawn reminds his husband just who it was he married.

“He _knows,_ ” Thrawn said, striding with purpose into the dining room.

Thrass looked up from Eli’s usual seat, where he’d determined he might be able to forget there was pornography strung up behind him while he took his breakfast. It had only been partially successful—he could see a massive dick reflected on a tureen. “What?” he asked. “What are you talking about?”

“He knows about the painting,” Thrawn said, clasping his hands behind his back and pacing the length of the giant canvas.

Thrass rolled his eyes and turned in his chair to look at his brother. “How could he possibly know that?” he asked. “ _I_ didn’t tell him.”

“You did. As did I. You told him our dining room had become unusable, and I told him that I had given you cause to throw a tantrum. Given that the last time you threw a tantrum it was because of an exorbitant art purchase, he had only to consider _what_ sort of artwork might serve to both make the dining room unusable as a dining room, _and_ provide tactical insight. The only possible conclusion is _The Lovers._ ” He exhaled sharply. “I admit I had not anticipated this level of deviousness.”

“Oh no…” Thrass intoned, his voice heavily-laden with sarcasm. “Don’t take the giant-dick painting down… that would be _awful._ ” At Thrawn’s glare, he waved a dismissive hand. “What does it matter if he knows?

“Because, brother: if I can deduce _his_ tactics from this painting, then _he_ can infer those tactics from the same painting and alter them accordingly.”

Thrass gave Thrawn a confused look. “I didn’t think Eli’van’to _did_ your freaky art witchcraft?”

“It is not witchcraft, it is a deduction based on psychosocial—“

“I did not care about that distinction twenty years ago and I do not care now, Thrawn.”

Thrawn ran a hand along his chin. “But you may be right… this may well be a diversionary tactic.”

Thrass huffed out a laugh. “Saw that in the brushstrokes of the giant painted dick, did you?”

“Perhaps…” Thrawn said distantly as he turned, his gaze fixed on the painting. “Perhaps not…” Narrowing his eyes, Thrawn leaned forward.

“You know,” Thrass said, turning back to his breakfast. “I don’t see how you can derive a Human’s tactics from Chiss artwork.”

“You don’t see how I can derive anyone’s tactics from anyone’s artwork,” Thrawn reminded him, still not looking away from the painting.

“Fair point.”

Thrawn let his hand hover over the work, tracing the lines of the two figures, mapping out their positions, ignoring his brother’s mumbled “ _Please stop stroking it._ ” As he did so, he felt the tingle of sense memory as his own thighs burned with the effort of stretching to replicate the—

He froze.

The painting _was_ a distraction, because the painting had already served as inspiration for _another artistic performance._ He felt his neck flush as he recalled their first night together at home after the bonding ceremony.

He’d found the book of constellations upon his desk. The page containing this very painting had worn a crease into the binding and the tome had fallen to it naturally, displaying the erotic work. His first thought had been pride that Eli had deduced his brother’s plot from a work of art, then _intrigue_ as he imagined them replicating the position….

_“Getting some inspiration?” Eli asked from the doorway to the bedroom. He had insisted on changing out of the burgundy suit and back into his own nightclothes the moment they were back at the manor. Thrawn wasn’t sure why, as he had no intention of allowing Eli to stay dressed for very long, but he supposed it was a matter of principle._

_Thrawn smiled as he watched his husband approach, slipping his arms around his waist and pulling him to rest between his legs. “You are all the inspiration I need, Eli,” he assured him, placing a lingering kiss on his jaw._

_Eli cradled Thrawn’s face in his hands and drew him in for a deep kiss. He pulled away, resting their foreheads together. With a knowing smirk, he said, “You want to try that position, don’t you?”_

_“You know me so well,” Thrawn said with a contented smile. As he allowed himself to be pulled toward the bedroom by his belt he added, “It doesn’t seem like it should be possible, but with proper stretching beforehand I think you could manage to do that with your legs safely.”_

_Eli grinned predatorily at the Chiss before tossing him to the bed. “Oh, I’m not the one who’s gonna be doin’ that with my legs,_ sir _._ _”_

_Thrawn cocked an eyebrow as he settled back into the mattress. “Intriguing… do go on.”_

Needless to say, it had been an exceptional performance.

Thrawn felt a warm tug of arousal at the memory. He’d hardly even realized that Eli had begun probing his most intimate of areas with his fingers, he’d been so distracted by Eli’s… mouth… enveloping…

“You’re thinking about sex stuff, aren’t you,” Thrass accused from behind him.

Thrawn stiffened slightly. He had, admittedly, forgotten his brother was in the room. “No,” he said (almost truthfully). “I was considering the artwork.”

“Right,” Thrass said skeptically, making a gratuitously loud shuffle as he gathered his morning paper and _cha’i_ before leaving the room in a huff, muttering, “ _Pretentious pervert._ ”

Thrawn ignored the comment because (apart from being true), it was irrelevant. Thrawn had far more important things to consider.

Like whether he could analyze Eli’s _sexual_ performances like the works of art they really were.

* * *

Thrawn had not slept in two days. Instead, he had spent that time recalling each and every sexual encounter he’d ever had with his bond-mate in exquisite detail. He considered this an excellent use of his time, and gave serious thought to suggesting that wargames become an annual recurrence.

For planetary security purposes.

Thrawn stood at the ready on the bridge of the Chiss battle cruiser _Oberon;_ it was currently orbiting Csilla like a small, lazy moon, ready to defend the planet below. The ship—like Eli’s—had been armed with salvos of magnetic paint that could be measured and translated into hits of plasma ball launchers and breacher missiles. All ships’ spectrum lasers had been downgraded, their beams now able to do little more than discolor the hulls. Syndicure-appointed observers were aboard both the _Oberon_ and Eli’s own ship, the _Tempest,_ as well as standing by on the ground, waiting to declare if and when a system—or even the ship itself—had been taken out of the game by the opposing faction.

Thrawn looked out the huge observation dome, just between two stars of the Lovers constellation, where he knew Eli would appear.

With Eli’s counter-analysis of _The Lovers_ painting, Eli would expect Thrawn to expect Eli to appear from that area. And, Eli also likely knew to expect that Thrawn would expect Eli to expect Thrawn to expect Eli to appear from that area. And, finally, because Eli had a decided tease-streak, he would do so.

But it would only be one ship.

“Commander Lys’anda?” Thrawn said, tapping out coordinates on the holo-display before him. “Launch a single fighter to these coordinates.”

“Yes, sir.”

Eli, Thrawn knew, appreciated something of a sensory cacophony: hot with cold, gentle with forceful, pain with pleasure. He would echo his “bait ship” with a larger force on the other side of the planet.

“Commander Her’mya,” Thrawn said. “Take your squadron to the far side of the planet, and prepare to engage. Lieutenant Egeus, ready spectrum lasers, aimed precisely at these coordinates.”

The chief weapons officer looked up at Thrawn from her place on the bridge. “Sir?”

“Be ready, Lieutenant,” Thrawn told her. “Captain Theli will bring breacher missiles to bear from the off and we must be ready.”

“Yes, sir…” Lieutenant Egeus hedged. “Are you certain he’ll make so bold a maneuver?”

Thrawn looked down at her with a patient expression. “Even if he has not been prepared, he will always rise to the challenge as if he has: ready spectrum lasers.”

“Sir?”

“He’s coming NOW!” Thrawn called out. “Fighters, maintain formation!”

Thrawn watched as a single ship appeared in hyperspace, precisely where he’d deployed his own fighter. Eli’s single fighter had barely begun to cease flickering with pseudo-motion when it had been hit with a weak-laser salvo and declared out of commission. Thrawn heard one of the comms officers give a muted cheer and allowed himself a subtle smile.

“Commander Her’mya: Captain Theli has lost his scout but he will be reluctant to relinquish control of his remaining fighters and will become aggressive,” Thrawn said. “Expect him from the top. He will come in several bursts—“

“ _Commander?”_ Her’mya’s incredulous voice echoed back on the bridge-comm. “ _How did—spotted them! Engaging fighters!_

First Officer Lys’anda looked up at Thrawn in almost _suspicious_ amazement. “Sir? How do you _know_ all this?”

Thrawn turned to her. He was silent a moment, then returned his gaze to the observation dome and said simply: “ _Art_.”

* * *

Eli stood on the bridge of the _Tempest,_ watching in horror as Thrawn meticulously removed each of his six fighters from play. Even though he was intimately aware of Thrawn’s strategic genius, he still found himself beginning to suspect somebody on his bridge was in secret communication with his husband.

 _How the hell did he anticipate that?_ Eli thought as he watched his fighters get splattered with white magnetic paint, one by one. He had been so sure he’d managed to anticipate any possible strategy that Thrawn might read from _The Lovers,_ and altered his own strategy accordingly.

Hell, Eli thought he’d managed to trick Thrawn into realizing that Eli had realized that Thrawn himself was using _The Lovers_ to derive Eli’s own tactics, goading him into giving up any insight the painting might have provided him.

Eli had been _so sure_ he’d managed to neutralize one of Thrawn’s greatest strengths: artistic interpretation.

Thrawn knew Eli better than anybody in this galaxy did, but he’d never had the opportunity to watch Eli _command_. What had once been something of a point of contention between them had turned into an advantage—or so he’d _thought._

But here they were: the _Oberon_ inexplicably successful and the _Tempest_ readying to retreat. It was almost as if Eli had composed an entire _museum’s_ worth of paintings and sculptures, and Thrawn had taken up residence inside it this past week: each piece of art as good as providing an instruction manual into all of Eli’s best tactics.

He’d been _proud_ of those tactics, Eli thought a tad petulantly.

But Eli wasn’t an artist. He played the _pa’ino_ on occasion, sure, but not his own compositions—not with enough virtuosity for Thrawn to pick him apart the way he had Savit… yet pick apart Eli Thrawn had.

He huffed a quiet laugh. Thrawn had picked him apart almost like he did when—

Then, Eli’s pulse picked up as he realized his mistake:

Thrawn wasn’t analyzing Eli’s favorite artworks.

He wasn’t even analyzing how Eli performed during his past _battles_.

_Thrawn was analyzing how Eli performed during sex._

“Pull out!” Eli yelled over his shoulder. “All ships, pull out! Retreat to base!”

 _This battle would go to Commander Thrawn_ , Eli thought with newfound determination, _but not the war._

Because _two_ could play at this game.

And it was a game Eli played very, _very_ well.


	5. Foreplay

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Eli reminds Thrawn whom _he_ married.

Eli really, _really_ hoped he wasn’t about to be interrupted.

Explaining why he was sitting in front of a holo-spreadsheet, creating shorthand labels for assorted sex acts was not how he wanted to spend his evening.

He was fairly certain it would constitute sexual harassment, actually, and he had no desire to 1. Traumatize someone under his command, and 2. Attempt to justify himself to a military tribunal. 

_"Well, you see Admiral Ar'alani, I was trying to penetrate Thrawn's grid, when—"_

No, thank you.

With that thought, Eli debated whether fingering for fingering’s sake and fingering for _preparation’s_ sake should be two distinct columns. He shrugged, swiping his hand to separate the two categories: may as well.

There were already _102 columns of data_ —what was one more?

Eli leaned back in his chair, folding his arms across his chest as he stared at the numbers. He’d broken down the last twenty sexual encounters between himself and Thrawn into discreet acts to better observe the larger patterns.

And there _were_ patterns.

For instance, Thrawn almost always began establishing a mood and a role: playfully submissive bottom, coyly submissive bottom, aggressively dominant bottom, playfully dominant bottom, service submissive top, playfully dominant top, aggressive dominant switch, and more.

Once that initial mood/role combination had been established, the order of events that would follow flowed with an almost logical probability—a numerical necessity. There was a great deal of variety and unpredictability with that initial choice, but once it had been made Thrawn saw it through to the end like some sort of _ritual,_ almost.

Even so, there were _certain_ things that Thrawn nearly _always_ did, _whatever_ mood/role he’d established.

Like, Thrawn _always bites Eli when he comes._ Whether submissive or dominant, topping or bottoming, playful or aggressive, or some combination therein, Eli knows Thrawn is about to come the moment those teeth latch onto his neck, shoulder, arm, leg, or back.

Hell, Eli had practically become conditioned to come _himself_ once it happened.

Anytime Thrawn was preparing Eli to bottom, he _always_ sucked his cock while he was doing it, almost like a distraction.

Anytime Thrawn penetrated Eli initially, however dominant or aggressive he was being otherwise, he always took the time to kiss Eli gently while he adjusted to the stretch of the thick cock inside him.

Eli nodded slowly to himself and created a new category for these reliable Thrawn-sex maneuvers. There weren’t _many_ of them… but there were enough to construct a bare-bones battle plan that could be filled in depending upon Thrawn’s first few maneuvers, indicating the mood and role he was establishing in the “bedroom,” or, “war room” in this case.

In the past, Eli had observed Thrawn’s patterns on the bridge—his habits, favored strategies. He was brilliant in adjusting to his opponents, but when he was on the attack, _even Thrawn_ had a tendency to fall back on certain patterns. Luckily, for time’s sake, Eli had plotted all _those_ out ages ago, long before Thrawn had shown up in brilliant, dramatic, (and inconvenient) fashion.

Eli had just… really _missed_ him, was all.

With a wave of his hand, Eli pulled up that spreadsheet as well, critically eying to two swaths of numbers and patterns side-by-side.

The longer he stared, the clearer the patterns shone as the music behind the madness made itself apparent.

Eli felt a self-satisfied smile twitch at his lips. He took a deep sip of _cha’i,_ plotted out the thirty most-probable scenarios, and began planning counter-strategies accordingly.

* * *

Eli had never felt so confident before a battle.

That was partially due to the fact that the enemy salvos couldn’t actually _kill_ anybody, but a good portion of it was confidence in his own strategy. He’d managed to map out the _sixty-four most likely scenarios_ last night and planned out the optimum strategy for each of them. Eli had been taught very well, after all. 

Really, Thrawn had no one to blame but himself for the legendary ass-kicking he was about to receive.

Eli blinked rapidly and took a sip from his fourteenth _cha’i lat’te_ of the night/morning.

There would be time for sleep later: now was the time for _victory._

“Alright,” Eli said in his most commanding voice, “Commander Thrawn may have gotten us on the run yesterday, but today will be different: today, we are going to take out each and every one of those ground lasers in G-sector by the time we’re through. We’ll give the commander some time to lick his wounds, because we’re thoughtful like that”—there was a faint frisson of laughter from the crew pit—“but then we come back tomorrow in full force to finish this once and for all. I have every confidence in each and every one of you. Trust me, trust your instincts, and most of all, trust the warrior beside you. Are we ready?”

“SIR, YES, SIR!” the crew said in impressive unison.

Eli allowed himself a smile.

 _Frack, he would never get tired of that. And he thought he’d wanted to be a_ supply _officer…_

Early that morning, Eli had already run his crew through a select number of scenarios (just four) that he thought likely, whatever larger strategy Thrawn deployed. He’d been through hell with his crew these past few weeks, and he’d given them all the chance to go home to be with their families after what they’d endured with the Grysk—told them all he’d use a different crew for the wargames.

Not a single member of the _Tempest’s_ crew chose to take him up on that offer.

Eli felt himself bloom with pride as he watched them; they operated like a flawlessly-coordinated orchestra and it showed.

The Grysk had already learned that.

Now, it was Thrawn’s turn.

The _Tempest_ emerged from hyperspace to find the _Oberon_ waiting for them. Its cannons were turned away, and so was its hangar bay: classic set-up for a Marg-sabl.

Not that Thrawn would be deploying it, of course. Because the fighters were on the other side of the planet, awaiting an assault that would not come.

 _Teasing aggressive top it is,_ Eli thought to himself with a satisfied smile: _scenario 14._

“Enemy ship readying ion cannons, sir!” Lieutenant Commander Bea’tryc called out.

_Thrawn liked a thick strip along Eli’s shaft as his fingers penetrated him, working him open—_

“The ion burst is a distraction for the tractor beam,” Eli said. “Divert all power to top magno-shields and send in Beta Squadron!”

“Yes, Captain!”

Moments later, a blue ion burst hit the Tempest, rocking it gently as the blue ion waves rolled uselessly off the hull. The three fighters of Beta Squadron slid into the tractor beam, diverting its pull from the _Tempest._

_Thrawn gave Eli a smug smile, waiting for his husband to beg to be fucked. Of course, Eli always did._

“Return fire!” Eli yelled.

“Yes, _sir!_ ” First Officer Ben’edic said with a pleased smile, aiming the spectrum lasers directly at the belly of the now-vulnerable _Oberon._

“Lieutenant Hero, proceed to target ground lasers alpha through delta,” Eli said, not bothering to conceal his smug smile as the _Oberon_ retreated.

Once the ground lasers had been tagged with spectrum laser fire and taken out of play, Eli ordered the ship to retreat.

He might be able to end it today, sure… but where was the fun in that?

Besides, he was fairly certain Thrawn had more than one surprise waiting for him planet-side, and he wanted to take one evening to enjoy his small victory before learning what it was in brilliant and disastrous fashion. 

However well Eli could respond to Thrawn's tactics, the man always found _some way_ of surprising him.

Once they cleared Chiss space, First Officer Ben’edic turned to his captain. “How did you know he would do that, sir?”

Figuring the truth—because Thrawn always blows me when he fingers me—would be more than a little inappropriate, Eli coughed lightly then said, “Data.”

* * *

Thrawn stared in shock. He realized his mouth had been open and he promptly closed it.

_That should not have been possible._

Even if Eli had managed to turn Thrawn’s own tactic of sexual analysis against him, Thrawn himself was… too _fluid_. He had interpreted his own sex acts and found their defining feature to be _spontaneity_ and _responsiveness to unexpected stimuli._

How (to borrow a favored expression of his husband's) in the ever-loving _frack_ had Eli parsed a battle plan out of _that_? Let alone one so meticulous and flawless? How did one predict for what was, by definition, unpredictable?

Thrawn had taught Eli almost everything he knew about tactics: He knew for a fact, however, that he had not taught the captain _that._ He didn't know if he should be more proud or mortified.  


As he ordered the _Oberon_ to return to base for mock-repairs, he realized his hubris: when it came to sex—it was _Eli_ who was the true mentor.

Eli always knew just what to do in response to Thrawn during sex: why would he not be able to do the same in _battle?_

Further, it had been some time since they’d been intimate, Thrawn mused. Had their long separation influenced Eli’s sexual tactics in ways that Thrawn had not anticipated? That would not do: he would require more current material for analysis. 

He anticipated it being an _educational_ experience.

Of course, it would be a dangerous game hinging on one question: who could get useful information out of interacting with the other _first_? Himself or Eli?

It was a risk, certainly, but that rather embarrassing encounter had just proven its necessity.

That night, Thrawn returned to Mitth Manor to immerse himself in their shared space, hoping it might provide clues for how best to convince his bond-mate to risk some manner of sexual encounter. He stared at their bed and the folded _wa’mp’thana_ at the base, arms folded across his chest. 

“Thrawn?” his brother asked from the doorway. “Aren’t you supposed to be—“

“I must pay a visit to my bakery,” Thrawn said, turning on his heel and pushing past his brother.

“For the hundredth time,” Thrass growled as Thrawn stormed down the hall, “it is _not your bake—Thrawn!_ ”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next time, we get a return of Eli's favorite cake! Mmmm...cake.
> 
> I think I might try baking it, actually...


End file.
